


conversations and casualties

by judyjargon



Series: Felannie Arrow AU [4]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: ....which is actually very pertinent this time huh, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Arrow AU, F/M, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Golden Deer Route Spoilers, Pre-Relationship, felix flips a lot of tables i guess, i didn't realize this series was gonna be felannie slow burn but heRe we go, might want to read the series in order tho, mild swearing because felix, no beta we die like Glenn, no knowledge of arrow needed, purposefully vague tags cause it's no fun to spoil everything, various golden deer mentions, yayy finally some context
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:21:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22239292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/judyjargon/pseuds/judyjargon
Summary: A squeak escapes her as she points the Philips-head screwdriver in her hand at him menacingly, “Don’t say a word, Felix! Forget you saw anything.”Amber eyes gleam with glee, “Can’t. It’s permanently burned in my memory.”She throws her hands in the air, declaring it a lost cause, and returns to the mess of boxes in front of her, attempting to find the GPU that she knows she ordered. “What are you even doing here? Don’t billionaires have things to do on Saturdays? Like… golf? Or buy real estate?”It’s hard to miss the pure amusement in his voice, “I suck at golf, and I pay people to do that for me.”-aka Felix and Annette figure it out and an unexpected visitor arrives
Relationships: Annette Fantine Dominic & Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Annette Fantine Dominic & Ingrid Brandl Galatea, Annette Fantine Dominic/Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Felix Hugo Fraldarius & Ingrid Brandl Galatea
Series: Felannie Arrow AU [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1591543
Comments: 7
Kudos: 37





	1. part i

**Author's Note:**

> on today's episode of "when will i stop torturing my favorite characters?"  
> also, didn't realize this was gonna be a two-parter until it got 3k in. part ii will be up (hopefully) towards the end of the week, at least if i don't die from finals first whoops

Annette hadn’t gotten any work done the next day.

Instead, she’d pulled out the notebook she rarely used in her desk and began jotting down little bullet points. Her writing looped and scrawled as she tried to piece together what she could about Felix Fraldarius and all of his facets.

Extensive research—also known as plugging his name into a search engine—mostly returns news stories from five years ago of Sylvain Gautier, getting drunk at clubs and smiling at the paparazzi, with Felix standing in the background looking disdainful. To be fair, Felix had never been a media darling by any stretch of the imagination.

He’d been plaguing her thoughts since she’d stumbled home the night before, crawling into bed with theories running amok. Her mind had been racing as she’d wrangled her hair into a low chignon the next morning, prying open bobby pins and burning herself on her curling wand all the while. He’d consumed her thoughts as she had nearly tripped over herself exiting the elevator onto her floor. 

By the time she had finally left the office and gotten herself something to eat from Mercie’s cafe, night had settled over and her curiosity still hadn’t relented. Annette _needed_ to know more, if for no other reason than so she could fall asleep easy that night.

Which is what had led her to where she is now, heels clicking against the concrete of the stairwell as she descended into the basement, humming something cheery under her breath. The sound of something ripping through the air and dim lighting greets her as she rounds around the stairwell, stopping dead in her tracks.

There’s Felix, an arrow drawn against his cheek as he breathes, aims, and shoots. The muscles of his shoulders shift underneath his black t-shirt and Annette short-circuits as the arrow lands true. Why is she here again?

Felix lowers the bow and flips it in his hand nimbly, turning around and smiling the slightest bit at her. It’s barely even a twitch of his lip, but she smiles back broadly. 

“Good evening,” Annette makes her way towards the setup, “...Weren’t you just shot yesterday? Should you be doing that?” She stops where she is, brow furrowed in confusion, “Is Ingrid not here?”

His eyes grow fond as he walks over, setting the bow on the table, “I’m fine. And no, Ingrid’s not here. I… I thought we could have that conversation.” 

It’s strange, seeing some form of hesitance in his eyes as he speaks. She’s used to the Felix who effortlessly spins a tale about shot up laptops and otherworldly daggers, somehow managing to sound sincere even when the words coming out of his mouth are outlandish. Now she knows the difference—held in the openness of his eyes and the tense of his shoulders. 

She tilts her head and leans back against the table, setting her laptop bag atop it beside the weapon, “And you don’t want her here for that?” 

A sigh, “No, it’s not that. But she has better things to do than listen to me talk.” 

“And I don’t?” Annette raises her eyebrow at his phrasing but smiles all the same. 

His cheeks tinge red and his arms cross, fingers flexing uncomfortably, “That—that’s not what I meant. Do you want to know or not?”

A giggle escapes her before she nods. 

And so, Felix begins.

-

All he can do is watch as his life crumbles around him.

There had been no body to bury—nothing but an empty casket in a plot next to their mother. The skies had been bright and sunny, the temperature tepid as a gentle breeze flowed through the cemetery. The priest had droned on and on about the afterlife and death, some bullshit about how those who pass live on and stay on this earth through remembrance.

But a dead person is dead. Felix knows this, having wasted so much time wishing for any sign from his mother to appear in the many years since she died. His heart is hollow and his mind carefully blank. He hadn’t missed the concerned looks Sylvain had shot at him from across the way, nor did he miss the way Dorothea stood a little closer than she normally would. Ingrid had been nowhere to be found, but that didn’t surprise him. 

If it’d been an empty casket for _his_ fiance that they were lowering into the ground, he’s not sure he would’ve been able to come either.

Even his father seems to be missing something—the presence of his best friend on one side and his son on the other. Felix keeps forgetting that, as awful as this is for him, it must be tenfold for his father, who’s lost not only his eldest son but his childhood best friend and his godson. 

So when he returns to an empty home, he’s almost expecting it. The last spark of hope in him, the one that told him that maybe his father would care enough about his second son to be there for him, dies at that moment. 

He trashes the foyer—flips the table and shatters the only family photo they have from when his mother was alive. The countless bouquets sent from Aegis associates spill to the floor as the vases fragment into mosaic pieces across the hardwood, glittering in the light that filters through the windows of the front door. Time doesn’t resume until there’s a pair of arms wrapped around him, the familiar scent of bergamot and the feel of broad shoulders enveloping him. Felix still doesn’t cry. 

It’s all cleaned up the next day. The photo is in a new frame and the overabundance of flowers slowly returns as more couriers arrive with arrangements every hour. He’s not sure if every day is a week or if every week is a day anymore. Time stops and starts and warps around him, robbing him of days and granting him so many minutes. 

Two months after the funeral, Felix wanders past his father’s home office on his way to meet with Sylvain. 

“...icia, you think I don’t know that? My son died for this…”

He stops dead in his tracks. The home office is supposed to be soundproof, but the door is cracked open the slightest bit. Just enough for sound to escape, especially at the volume his father is speaking at.

“...of course I haven’t forgotten. Lambert was too close…”

All thoughts of his plans with Sylvain leave his mind, replaced by a red tinge in his vision. His father is complicit. The sinking of the _Areadbhar_ wasn’t an accident. Rodrigue had let Glenn get on that boat. 

_His father had let his brother die._

-

Annette’s hums under her breath as she starts unpacking boxes

There’s what seems like a hundred pieces of tech and enough packing peanuts to fill a swimming pool. Her first order of business had been taking Felix’s limitless credit card and buying parts to build a computer for the basement, along with a chair that she can sit in for hours without listening to her shoulders crack if she moves her arms too fast. 

It’s midday on a Saturday, which means she’s all alone. Felix’s a busy man, and wherever Felix went Ingrid usually wasn’t too far behind. She has her summer playlist on shuffle playing off her phone on top of the table, mouthing along to the lyrics as she fusses with hard drives and processors. 

Summer has just started in Fhirdiad, and while it certainly doesn’t get hot, it gets warm enough in comparison to the rest of the year that Annette’s ditched her wintertime sweatpants and sweaters for practical jeans and loose t-shirts. 

She bops her head back and forth to the song filtering through her phone’s speakers, torso swaying back and forth with the upbeat tempo as she secures the motherboard in the case, reaching out blindly for the screwdriver she needs and knowing it simply by touch alone. After having to deconstruct and reconstruct so much hardware in her life, Annette knows her tools like the back of her hand. Her lips move along to the lyrics of the song as she turns away from the case and towards the pile of boxes again. 

Only to make eye contact with Felix, who stares at her with a quirked brow and unrestrained amusement. He stands at the base of the stairs with his arms crossed, but Goddess only knows how long he’s been standing there watching her embarrass herself. Part of a being a vigilante meant that he was uncannily quiet, something that had always spooked her when he used to bring her projects at Aegis. 

A squeak escapes her as she points the Philips-head screwdriver in her hand at him menacingly, “Don’t say a word, Felix! Forget you saw anything.”

Amber eyes gleam with glee, “Can’t. It’s permanently burned in my memory.”

She throws her hands in the air, declaring it a lost cause, and returns to the mess of boxes in front of her, attempting to find the GPU that she _knows_ she ordered. “What are you even doing here? Don’t billionaires have things to do on Saturdays? Like… golf? Or buy real estate?”

It’s hard to miss the pure amusement in his voice, “I suck at golf, and I pay people to do that for me.” 

Her cheeks grow hot, “That is _not_ the point, Mister. I thought you’d be off galavanting through the financial district or something.” 

“I’d rather be here.”

Annette stops what she’s doing and looks up at that statement, taking in the carefully neutral expression on Felix’s face. It’s strange to think that Felix Fraldarius, who could command all of Fhirdiad with a signature and a flourish, would rather spend his time in a dingy basement working out and practicing things he’s already insanely good at. 

But it’s not so strange to think of Felix doing that. Just Felix. 

-

“Isn’t this guy doing exactly what you do?” Ingrid questions from where she leans against the table, arms crossed and eyes piercing. “Crusading against corruption and aiming to cleanse Fhirdiad?”

Felix frowns, tossing a tennis ball in the air and pinning it to the wall with an arrow in the same breath. There’s already dozens of them on the wall across the way, pinned there through razor-sharp arrows and a bit of overzealous frustration. Not that he’ll ever admit that to anyone. 

“No. People like him don’t show my level of restraint,” He lowers his bow finally and pulls the quiver slung across his back over his head, setting it on its designated perch. A low, manic sort of energy buzzes just underneath his skin, filling in the crevices between his fingers and bones, the spaces between veins and muscles.

There’s a maniac running around Fhirdiad, and it’s unsettling. 

He looks at Annette, who’s hunched over her keyboard in a way he’s never seen her, fingers blazing across the keys with a single-minded focus, “Anything, Annette?”

Annette swears something low under her breath—something he’d never thought he’d hear from her lips anyway, “I’m trying! This guy has so many firewalls up around his website, I had an easier time getting into NASA when I was in high school.” She doesn’t even turn to look at him as she speaks, typing all the while. Felix decides that it’s better to let her do her thing. 

“ _We’re back._ ”

Ingrid stands up straight as Felix moves to look over Annette’s shoulder, setting a hand on her shoulder as the website comes back to life, blaring _TAILTEANS BETRAYED_ in a stereotypical serial killer font. It’d be funny if it wasn’t becoming true. 

“ _I_ _have the Assistant District Attorney with me. Say hello.”_

Felix moves, gathering his two swords and his bow, “You have him?” He asks over his shoulder, grabbing the helmet off the wall with the blacked-out visor. It’ll have to do for now. There’s no time. 

There’s never any fucking time. 

“I will. Go!” 

He doesn’t need to hear anything else. His feet slam down onto the stairs, echoing through the basement as he busts through the door. In a breath, he’s on his motorcycle and throttling as hard as he can, wheels spinning underneath him for a moment before he’s propelled out of the alleyway and onto the streets, going nowhere as he waits for Annette. He has complete and utter faith. 

And just like always, she never fails him. 

“He’s at 83rd and Seiros!”

His wheels screech as he veers hard right, leaving deep black streaks in the pavement as he cuts through the alleyway.

The clattering of Annette’s fingers flying across her keyboard serves as white noise as he races through the abandoned apartment building on that corner, scaling stairwells and kicking in doors as he goes—but he finds nothing. 

He can hear vague sounds from the twisted livestream through what filters through Annette’s side of the comm. The man croons as the ADA whimpers through the piece of duct tape that’d been over his mouth. 

“Wait—I—his signal’s coming from 65th and Cichol now?”

Felix reaches the roof of the building and spins in a circle, rage bubbling in his throat as he knows time is ticking down, “He’s not here! Where is he?” 

“I—I—”

“Talk to me, Annette!”

A gunshot sounds from the video filtering through Annette’s side. She makes a strangled noise, a little gasping sound that horrifies him. Felix knows what just happened.

“Annette? Annette, answer me. Annette!” 

The only response he gets is the echo of her comm as it falls to the ground and turns off.

-

When Felix finally arrives back, it’s dead silent.

It’s never silent. There should be the sound of Annette’s voice, glittering and boisterous, harmonious amongst the whirring of her computers. Ingrid should be there too, both of them talking and laughing about something or another when he returns. They already have so many inside jokes without him, probably about him, at this point.

It’s not only silent, but still—there’s no life down here now, not without any of those things that he’s come to cherish since he began this crusade of his. Felix had never intended to bring anyone else into his mess in the beginning. Except, now he can’t fathom not having Annette talking in his ear, regaling her review of the latest movie or complaining about some half-wit at Aegis, or Ingrid behind his back, a steady presence that he knows never falters. It makes the situation all that much more unsettling. 

Finally, he sees Annette—curled up in her chair under that blanket she’d been wearing the first day she was here, after saving his life. 

“Annette?” He gets no answer. If he didn’t know any better, he’d assume she was asleep, “Annette…”

His feet carry him in front of her, moving to card his fingers through her hair as she finally opens her eyes and looks at him. Her beautiful blue eyes are red-rimmed and swollen, the ever-present smile on her face nowhere to be found. 

“How can you look at me?” She croaks, voice shaky as she darts her eyes away from his, staring at her keyboard on the table next to them. He doesn’t answer, merely tucks a piece of hair behind her hair, “I let a man die today.”

He furrows his brow, “He was bouncing his signal, and you said yourself—”

“And it’s _my_ job to unscramble the signal, Felix. Mine alone. You rely on me to tell you what you need to know and I failed. And then because I failed, I…” 

A single crystalline tear trickles down her cheek. He rests both hands on her cheeks and forces her to look at him, sweeping his thumb to catch the tear. “Annette,” he sighs heavily and looks away for only a moment, “...it doesn’t always go our way. We have to learn to live with that. So we move on, and we try again.” 

There’s a beat of silence.

“How can you say that?” She grabs his wrists and shoves his hands away from her, the wheels of her chair rolling back with the force of her action, “He’s _dead_ , Felix! Dead. Just because I didn’t stab him with a sword or put an arrow through him doesn’t mean it’s… it’s…” Annette trails off, her brow furrowing in anger even as tears begin to cascade down her cheeks, “Just because you can compartmentalize and move on doesn’t mean I can.” 

Felix doesn’t think that he can breathe. 

She stands and pulls on her coat, even as her hands tremble so visibly. When he moves towards her she backs away, raising a finger in warning as her shoulders quiver, “Don’t, Felix. I don’t need saving.” 

He can only watch as she picks up her bag and walks away, mere feet of distance that suddenly feels like miles between them as she ascends the stairs. He doesn’t move, barely breaths until the door shuts behind her, silent besides the click of the lock re-engaging.

Not even the crash of the table as it hits the ground fills the gaping hole inside of him.


	2. part ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All Annette can do is watch as Felix’s hands flex, thinking that he aches to grab any sort of weapon. Except—  
> Felix nods his head in acknowledgment and some form of… of deference. It’s stiff and shallow, but unmistakable.  
> “Hello again, Felix.”

Annette doesn’t come the next night.

Or the one after that.

Or the one after that.

It’s day five of Ingrid trying to figure out Annette’s intricate, deeply personalized computer setup when she finally snaps. Felix doesn’t even make it down the staircase before she starts.

“Will you just go and talk to her?” The blonde bites, chin high and looking as though she’s waiting for him to attack her, “Stop being a vigilante for once and act like a human being.” 

“You didn’t hear what she said, Ingrid. She’s not coming back,” Felix sighs, careful to keep his tone measured even as the exhaustion he’s oh so familiar with makes itself at home. He sets his bow on the table and slowly begins deconstructing his alter ego—although that’s perhaps the last thing he wants right now. 

Being Felix Fraldarius tends to fuck up everything in his life. At least he does some good with a sword at his side and a bow across his back, instead of standing around and making small talk about shit that doesn’t matter with people he doesn’t like, saved only by Sylvain making stupid comments in his ear the whole time. 

All that’s left is the black t-shirt when Ingrid grabs his hand, holding it in a death grip with her own, “You don’t _know_ that. Did she tell you she wasn’t coming back?” 

Felix avoids her eyes. If anyone at all can see through him, it’s Ingrid, and he doesn’t need that now, “It was heavily implied.” 

“Get your head _out_ of your ass, man up, and go to her instead. You’ve been living down here all week like you’re waiting for her to come down the stairs like some angel descending. Have you even gone home?” He yanks his hand from her grip and walks away

It’s a ridiculous statement. Neither of then are willing to directly address it—the elephant in the room or the date on the calendar. Part of it rings true, but it’s more than that. It’s the stupid fucking charity gala they have to attend now, an event meant to cover up the irreparable fissures in the Fraldarius family as if they haven’t already been there for decades, the first time a coffin had been lowered into the ground. 

Something imperceptible in Ingrid softens, “I worry about you, Felix. Being down here, day in and day out, isn’t a life. And you deserve a _life._ ”

He knows that look in her eyes. It’s the look she used to get when Glenn would crack some awful joke or do something sweet for her. It’s the look she gets now when Felix does something that reminds her of him. It’s the look he expects to get on this day, given all that’s happened in the six years since… since before.

Fuck, it’s been six years now. 

Sometimes he forgets just how much Ingrid lost that day, too; that the reason she’d finally followed through on her dreams and gone into the armed forces afterward had been because she was trying to outrun the same thing Felix had been all those years ago, and yet to no avail. They were both in this basement together, after all.

A final sigh as she reaches up to pinch the bridge of her nose, “Please talk to her. If not for you, than for her. You owe it to her.”

He doesn’t need reminding. She’s permanently etched in his mind—red-rimmed eyes and drawn-in shoulders, tears streaming down her cheeks as she cries. _Felix_ did that to her. If he’d never brought her down here, that never would’ve happened to her. He never would’ve seen her cry like that. 

That hadn't been his intention when he’d kept going back to Annette for tech help. There was, still is, something effervescent about her—something in the way that she laughed or the songs that she hummed that fueled him more than any crusade could. She’d drawn him in and he hadn’t been able to stay away. Now he knows that he should have. 

And maybe he’s been sleeping down here all week, curled up in the cot in the corner meant for nights when he can’t force himself to drag his beat-up body back to the cold manor, far too big for the two people living there who don’t speak. At least he feels safe here—confident in the security system that Annette had meticulously installed that hazy Saturday afternoon all those months ago. Everything seems to circle back to her. 

Even as he speaks, he refuses to acknowledge the way his fingers tremble as he buttons up his dress shirt, “Save it, Ingrid. My father was expecting us an hour ago.” 

“Like you ever cared about punctuality,” Ingrid quips, heels clicking as she walks over and helps him with his cufflinks. She doesn’t mention the tremors in his hands and he doesn’t mention the ring on her left hand. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs, so low under his breath that it doesn’t even carry through the room, privy only to Ingrid’s ears as she fusses with his collar. 

The blonde lets out a small smile and leans up to plant a kiss on his cheek. He doesn’t cringe away from the contact, for once, “We’ve been through a lot, Felix. I’d never abandon you.” 

The rest goes unspoken. Perhaps Annette is one of the lights in his darkness, but Ingrid is the presence that guards his back—steady and unfaltering, bringing with her a reassuring sense of safety that goes unmatched on darker days like this one.

If he reaches down and pulls her into an embrace, he’ll deny it until his last breath. 

-

There’s a knock at Annette’s door. 

Mimi meows and hops off her lap at the sound, walking a circle around her bed in the corner before curling up and laying her head down, content to sleep there instead of in her owner’s lap. 

Annette pauses her Netflix and stands, deciding that she’s presentable enough in athletic shorts and a t-shirt that hangs off her shoulder. There’s only so many people who know where she lives anyway, and none of them would care. 

Her feet, covered in knee-high socks with music staffs all over them, pad across the carpet as she moves towards her front door and unlocks it. She pulls it open and immediately moves to shut it again. 

Felix puts his foot in the door frame, stopping her from doing so. There’s something weary on his face as he speaks, “Please, Annette.” 

It stops her in her tracks. She’s never heard that word from his lips, accustomed to commands through a comm and light teasing. She doesn’t open the door again, but she does move away from it, grabbing the remote off the coffee table and shutting off her TV. Still, she keeps quiet.

The man in question slinks into her apartment, looking out of place amongst the bright accouterments in his dark clothing. He holds up a familiar paper bag, “I noticed that you always have something from that cafe on Bergliez and Charon, so I stopped in and asked if they knew what you liked. The, ah, person was really nice. Lit up as soon as I said your name.”

Annette swallows and takes the bag from him, opening it up and seeing three buns lightly dusted with sugar inside, stacked carefully as not to upset the perfect, even layer. It has Mercie written all over it.

Sweet, perfect Mercie, who keeps telling her that she needs to talk to whoever her mystery man is and work it out because she’s “ _never seen her so gloomy before!_ ” 

But Annette can’t tell her that the reason she can’t sleep at night isn’t because of some false lovers quarrel. It’s because of murder—a murder that is as much her fault as it is the person who’d pulled the trigger. She sets the bag down on her coffee table and finally looks at Felix, taking him in for the first time in a week as she wills the reminder away. 

He looks exhausted—the shadows under his are darker and his face is more gaunt than usual. There’s something defeated in the way he stands—shoulders caved in, a hand clutching his opposite forearm—as if showing up at her door is some admission of weakness in itself. She doesn’t realize she’s moving until she’s up on her toes, hands coming up to cradle his jaw, “You look like you haven’t slept in a year.”

A weak smile and an admission, “Feels like it.” 

Annette frowns as she takes his wrist and guides him to her couch, making sure he sits down before wandering into her kitchen to rifle through her tea cabinet, trying to find something Felix will at least not hate. She comes across the chamomile in the back and decides on that. It looks like he could use it.

When she wanders back in with two steaming mugs of tea, Felix is simply fiddling with his hands, digging his thumb into the palm of the other as if there’s a deep-seated ache he can’t get rid of. She wouldn’t be surprised if there was, given his nightly activities.

He blinks in surprise when she holds out a mug for him, but takes it nonetheless. She blows softly on hers before taking a sip, sitting down beside him on the tiny loveseat that barely fits in her one-bedroom apartment. They sit just like that for a while, sipping their tea in her quiet apartment on the third floor of a Tailteans apartment complex. 

Mimi stands from her bed and walks over to the two of them, meowing softly as she weaves in between their legs. Felix reaches down to scratch under her chin, the feline tilting her head in satisfaction, “Hello there.”

So Felix is a cat person. That makes sense. 

“That’s Mimi. She’s named after—

“Mimi from _Rent_?” 

Annette blinks in surprise, cocking her head in curiosity as Felix sets his mug on the coffee table and swoops Mimi off the floor, settling her in his lap as she purrs. Her light grey fur is already shedding all over his black clothing, but he doesn’t seem to mind, “You’re into musicals?”

Mimi rolls over and Felix continues petting her, still not looking at Annette, “I have a friend, well, two of them, who are really into musical theater. And you’re always humming _What You Own_.”

It hadn’t occurred to her that he listened when she hummed, given he was usually running across rooftops or climbing the salmon ladder when she did. Silence lapses again, but Annette doesn’t let it sit for long this time, “Why are you here, Felix?” 

His hand stills as he finally looks up at her, “To apologize.” 

She twists her torso towards him and leans sideways against the back of the couch, head tilted as she stares at him. 

He lets his eyes dart away from hers for a moment as he swallows, “I’m sorry for what I said. It wasn’t supposed to sound that way.” 

In hindsight, Annette knows that now. Felix is such a pragmatic person, she knows that he often forgets about the emotional side of it all. But that doesn’t erase the visceral hurt in that moment, or the feeling in her chest every time she thinks about setting foot in there again. In what way was she even qualified to do what she had been doing in that basement for the past few months? Misguided righteousness? An unrelenting sense of curiosity? 

“I’m not asking you to come back. You’re always welcome, but if that isn’t what you want...” Felix trails off, lifting his hand so that Mimi can launch herself off of his lap and slink away and through Annette’s bedroom door. 

The thing is, Annette doesn’t know what she wants. 

Nothing had been more fulfilling than listening in as Felix saved people and damned those who were guilty every night, acting in the background to help him in his crusade. And yet, she wasn’t sure how many nights like that she could handle. 

So instead of answering, she lays her free hand over Felix’s and smiles, although it’s a bit strained. She knows he can tell, easy to see in the way he seems to deflate, “Would you stay for a bit? Just to rest?” 

His smile is equally as strained, but real nonetheless, “I can do that.” 

-

It takes her another two weeks before she gathers the courage. 

The code for the keypad hasn’t changed, and the lock clicks as she hauls open the reinforced door, the cool basement air instantly familiar. Had it really been three weeks?

Annette steps lightly down the stairs, rounding the corner to find Felix’s wide eyes zeroed in on her from over Ingrid’s pivoted shoulder, holding on of the flechettes he always keeps on him. He looks utterly shocked, as if having already come to the conclusion that she was never coming back. Her lips twitch up into a smile as she approaches, giving a little wave. 

There’s a bright smile on Ingrid’s face, such an outlandish contrast to the soft one that Felix’s settles into, “Good to see you again.” 

Annette smiles at the blonde, tucking a loose piece of hair behind her ear as she sets her bag down on the table, “You too. I… missed it down here.” 

The admission falls from her lips before she realizes how true it is. The computer she’d meticulously built by hand and the tennis balls still stuck to the wall; the gleaming swords shining from where they’ve been set on their stand. But most importantly Felix and Ingrid, the latter of which takes her hand and gives it a squeeze as she walks past. She smiles broadly at them both. 

She cracks her knuckles as she takes a seat in her chair, watching as her monitors come to life around her with a childish sense of glee, “So, what’s on the agenda tonight?”

Felix opens his mouth to respond, only for his eyes to go wide. She furrows her brow in confusion, about to ask him what’s wrong—

Something’s beeping.

There’s not even a moment for her to attempt to question the noise before he pulls her out of her chair and to the ground. A long beep sounds and smoke fills the air

When Felix stands she attempts to grab him and force him to stay down, but he slips from her grasp, standing at full height amongst the haziness.

The smoke dissipates quickly. When it does, a figure stands at the base of the staircase, a mask pulled over their face. There’s a design on that mask that seems so familiar to Annette, immobile as they slowly tug it downwards along with their hood, revealing deep blue hair and a matching set of eerie eyes. 

All Annette can do is watch as Felix’s hands flex, thinking that he aches to grab any sort of weapon. Except—

Felix nods his head in acknowledgment and some form of… of deference. It’s stiff and shallow, but unmistakable.

“Hello again, Felix.”

“What do you want, Byleth?” He snaps, without any of the restraint or respect that his earlier action had implied, “I thought Fhirdiad was off-limits.”

The figure merely blinks, unperturbed by the venom Felix spits at them, “Something that belongs to the League is in Fhirdiad. You’re going to help us retrieve it.”

Ingrid moves to stand from her own spot on the ground, “Like _hell,_ he will, how did you even—“

“Ingrid,” Felix stops her, turning to face her and shaking his head, expression softening the slightest bit. He focuses his attention back onto the visitor, “What’s so important that you came here personally?”

They cock their head, ”A Hero’s Relic.”

Felix seems to freeze where he stands, going utterly still, “Doesn’t matter to me.” Even Annette can hear the lie interwoven in those words, “And I thought we were even.”

The corner of their mouth twitches up in some sick distortion of amusement, “Why do you think you’re the only vigilante in town again? Surely, you can’t believe that the Savior would simply… stop. You owe us now.”

Annette covers her mouth to hide the horror, thinking of the maniac who’d she’d failed to catch almost a month ago now. This was her fault. If she hadn’t failed—

Frustrations flashes, clear as day, across Felix’s features, “I didn’t ask—“

“No,” they cut him off, “you didn’t need to. Now you’ll return the favor.”

All protests die from Felix, who merely stands there and stares at the figure, fingers flexing at his side. Hostility begins to seep through their bland facade. Annette shivers. 

“Felix,” Ingrid chides, “you can’t seriously be considering—“

“Do remember where your loyalties lie. We’ll be in touch,” they interrupt before turning their back— _t_ _urning their back—_ to Felix.

Annette scrambles to her feet as they ascend the stairs, barely able to comprehend how Felix simply lets them walk away, unmoving until the sound of the door closing can be heard. When he does move, it’s only to lean over the table, resting his elbows on the table and threading his hands through his hair, head bowed.

“Who was that?” Ingrid demands, dusting off her blazer as she comes up beside Felix, “And how do they know you?”

“ _That_ was the Sothis League. It’s where I spent the last five years.” 

Felix stands straight and lifts the edge of his shirt, revealing that butterfly-esque tattoo on his ribcage that Annette had spotted the first day, forgotten about until just now, a perfect replica of the symbol that was on the mask. He drops the fabric, wrinkled from the stress of his grip.

“And I can’t tell them no.”


	3. part iii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s a sudden sharpness to his smile as he stretches his arms above his head in false leisure. He intertwines his fingers behind his head, “Too bad you don’t get a choice, Fraldarius. I’d tell you to play nice, but I think we both know you’re incapable.”   
> Even without being able to see his face, Annette feels Felix’s ire radiating off of him in waves. She’s never seen anyone get under his skin so easily, except maybe that one time she had accidentally met Sylvain.

Felix remembers the first time he ever picked up a sword.

  
He’d wandered his way to Garreg Mach, going off nothing but whispers in dingy taverns and figures that slipped into the shadows as he trekked his way across Fodlan. Someone had overheard him in those dingy taverns, asking nosy questions about a secret society of warriors that existed only in legend. 

  
That person had followed him back to his hotel room and held a dagger against his throat, demanding to know why he was asking questions and bringing attention to himself. He’d answered, and instead of bleeding out in that hotel room, he was brought to Garreg Mach. 

  
That person had been Byleth. 

  
He remembers standing in front of the Blade Breaker and being accepted. He remembers the feel of the tattoo gun buzzing against his ribs. He remembers standing in those training grounds and feeling Byleth’s eyes pierce his back, hearing the echo of clashing blades and the whip of arrows flying through the air. 

  
They’d talked about each of the weapons the League permitted use of. Guns were too volatile—didn’t require the discipline and precision that the League required of all its members, the sharp honing of their senses that pushed them past brilliance. Swords, bows, lances, axes—even old tomes containing Reason and Faith that had been saved from destruction, yellow in their age with crisp edges from the flame that had nearly destroyed them. 

  
Byleth had pulled the sword off the rack and held it out for him, gleaming brightly in the low candlelight of the underground. He’d clutched the hilt in his hand and felt the edges of the leather, the grooves where those before him had placed their own hands. He’d done an experimental swung, and Byleth had immediately corrected him—changed the angle of his grip and the flick of his wrist, made him understand the weight and the balance of a blade. 

  
Felix had never gone back. 

  
That sword sits on its stand, still gleaming in the fluorescent light of the basement, carefully maintenanced and meticulously cared for. The leather of the hilt is more worn, the pommel of the blade has lost its sheen despite his best efforts, but it’s still his sword. 

  
At least, he likes to think that it is. He owes everything to the League—his skill, his peace of mind, and his life. His life is no longer his own, and that’s the agreement he’d made in desperation all those years ago. 

  
That’s the agreement that brought him here. 

  
“And that’s where you learned to do all of this?” Ingrid makes a grand sweeping motion, pulling Felix from his reminiscing. 

  
He simply nods, “The League operates on a strict code of honor and quid pro quo. I don’t have a choice,” A headache starts to form behind his eyes.

  
Ingrid makes a frustrated noise, digging the heel of her palms into her eyes, “What’s so important about this Hero’s Relic?”

  
“They’re from the War of Unification.” Felix whips his head around, shocked at Annette’s words. She pulls her gaze from where she stares in the distance, clears her throat, and starts again, “Ancient nobility used to have this... strange sort of power imbued in their bloodlines. It manifested inconsistently, but when it did it allowed some of the nobility to wield powerful weapons known as Hero’s Relics.

  
“The new Archbishop, after the war, revealed the origins of the Relics. They were destroyed as a result. At least, that’s what they tell you in 325 Ancient Fodlan: War of Unification,” Annette digs her teeth into her lower lip, arms wrapped around herself in a self-soothing motion, “I took it as an elective at FIT. I needed to have another credit and, well, my ancestors were nobility. I didn’t think it’d ever be particularly relevant since they don’t exist anymore and all that.” Her tone turns accusatory, arching an eyebrow at Felix. 

  
He pinches the bridge of his nose, feeling the onsetting headache start to settle, “They were laid to rest, not destroyed. The League was created to serve as guardians of the Relics, among other things.” 

  
Felix opens his eyes and Ingrid’s holding out his water bottle for him. A reluctant sort of exasperated fondness settles in his chest as he takes it from her, “Relics are dangerous in the right hands and catastrophic in the wrong ones. If I’d known, I would’ve retrieved it myself.” 

  
Ingrid lets out a heavy sigh. Felix takes the opportunity to drink his water, “Well, the first step to retrieving something is finding it. Any chance you know how to track down an ancient, mythical weapon?” 

  
A shake of his head, “Not unless they’re awakened. If that had happened, I doubt the League would waste their time asking for my assistance.”  
Felix sets down his bottle, “No point dwelling. They’ll let me know when I’m needed.”

-

And they do. Let him know, that is. Unfortunately, it also happens to be the day when Ingrid is out of town visiting her family. It’s just Felix and her tonight—the sharp sound of steel cutting through air accompanies the clicking of her keyboard in a familiar, oddly soothing manner. Well, what she would normally consider soothing.

  
There’s that telltale sound of a sword sliding in a sheath, “Any progress?”

  
Annette turns to Felix, expression full of exasperation and slight annoyance, “The same amount as when you asked five minutes ago. Agarthan Corp is insanely well-protected, and my program can only work so fast unless you’d like it to get discovered and traced back to our IP address.”

  
He grumbles and puts his sword back in its designated spot, neglecting to respond. Annette lets out a little sigh and turns to check on the program again, taking a sip of some insanely expensive Leicester Cortania in her Fhirdiad Institute of Technology mug, courtesy of a guilty Felix after Ingrid had put an arrow through one of her screens while Felix was trying to teach her how to shoot. She’s already forgiven him, but he keeps buying her expensive tea, so she doesn’t say anything.

  
Annette swears she’s only turned away for a moment when she turns to quip at Felix again, only to see a League person standing mere feet away instead. If she jumps so violently that some of her tea spills onto her white top, she won’t admit it.

  
They pull that mask with the symbol down, revealing a cocked smirk and bright green eyes, “Well, that’s unfortunate.” Annette sputters in indignity.

  
“Leave her out of this,” Felix snaps, moving to put himself in between her and the unwelcome guest, “I thought Byleth was running point, Riegan. I’m not sure I want to stick my neck out if you’re in charge.”

  
There’s a sudden sharpness to his smile as he stretches his arms above his head in false leisure. He intertwines his fingers behind his head, “Too bad you don’t get a choice, Fraldarius. I’d tell you to play nice, but I think we both know you’re incapable.” 

  
Even without being able to see his face, Annette feels Felix’s ire radiating off of him in waves. She’s never seen anyone get under his skin so easily, except maybe that one time she had accidentally met Sylvain. It would be entertaining if she didn’t know that this Riegan person could kill her in the blink of an eye. 

  
The man drops his hands as a more serious expression settles onto his features, “Byleth’s doing reconnaissance. They just confirmed the whereabouts of the Relic, so it’s time to move. Look alive, this’ll be fun.” 

  
Felix tilts his head, and Annette can only imagine the sour look on his face until he turns around to face her. It’s still there for a moment before it wipes away, “Agarthan can wait another night. You should go home.”

  
She narrows her eyes at him, “And let you in the field without technical support? Not a chance, unless you learned how to wipe CCTV recently.” She grabs the comm sitting beside her keyboard and tosses it in his general direction. As always, Felix catches it effortlessly.

  
The look he gives her is usually one he reserves for Ingrid. While strange to have it turned onto her, she refuses to back down. It’s the same look he uses when Ingrid insists he could use some backup in the field—a mixture of disbelief, exasperation, and resignation all at once. Annette merely quirks a brow. 

  
Felix rolls his eyes and presses the comm into his ear before turning back to their guest. Except he’s wandered over to Felix’s rack of arrows, plucking one off the display and skillfully twirling it between his fingers, “While I’m enjoying all of this unresolved tension, we need to get moving. Brought a present for you, courtesy of the Blade Breaker.” 

  
Annette opens her mouth to refute his observation of ‘unresolved tension,’ because quite frankly even _if_ she saw Felix in that sort of light, it would be disastrous, and nothing short of the threat of death would make her want to pursue it. They were complete opposites and utterly incompatible in that way, especially since—

  
“Fuck you, Claude. Why the hell did you bring this?”

  
Felix’s expletive yanks her back to the present, where he’s leaned over an opened box on the table, obviously, whatever it is that Claude—thank Goddess, she finally had a name—had brought with him. Annette stands from her chair and peers over his shoulder to see—a shield. It looks to be carved out of an ivory-like material, greig and… dingy. Certainly not something that she would expect to cause such a heated reaction in Felix.

  
Claude turns to Felix with cutting smile, a glint of something cruel and angry in his eyes, “The Gautier Lance has been _stolen_ , in case you forgot, Felix. Simple steel isn’t going to get it back. You think I want to carry this thing either?” He pulls his bow over his shoulder and holds it out. It looks to be of the same material as the shield, though with a glow that shifts between gold and red with a luminescent red gem. It dawns on Annette. 

  
These are Hero’s Relics. And if Claude had brought one for Felix, that means…

  
Felix hesitantly ghosts a finger over the engraved surface of the shield—it immediately comes to life under his touch, adopting that shifting glow that the bow in Claude’s hands has. He yanks his hand away and swallows. Annette glances down and sees the way his hands tremble at his side below the level of the tabletop. She rarely ever sees him shaken, and certainly not to this extent. 

  
“If whoever has stolen it isn’t a Crest-bearer, we shouldn’t need all this nonsense.” 

  
It’s a dangerously phrased statement, even if the term ‘Crest-bearer’ goes over her head. Annette assumes that the term has something to do with the power that belonged to ancient nobility, but she can only draw so many conclusions. Damnit, she’s gonna sit Felix down and interrogate him about all of this as soon as she can.  


Claude doesn’t answer for a moment, expression carefully blank as he holds the bow at his side, “Let’s go, Felix. We’re wasting time.” 

  
Ingrid was gonna be so pissed that she missed this.

-

There’s something achingly familiar about where he stands now—to the left of Byleth as Claude is to their right, followed by a small group of Byleth’s most trusted.   
Felix hates the shield on his arm, the bow in Claude’s hands, the sword in Byleth’s grip. He can’t stand the gleam of Hilda’s axe, nor the staff that Lysithea holds. They shine like beacons in the crisp night, glowing an eerie gold against the silver of Fhirdiad.

  
Part of him is still bitter, resentful of the power in him that had remained dormant until he’d arrived at Garreg Mach and allowed Essar to coerce him into placing his hand on that damn machine. He hates the blue light that manifests beside him if he’s not careful. He hates that his acceptance into the League had been reliant on the power in his veins and not the skill or tenacity that he had possessed.

  
But everyone seems unsettled by the weapons they hold at their sides, too aware of the origins of them. 

  
“Our target is Miklan Anschutz Gautier—he’s volatile and unhinged. Be on your guard.” Byleth warns, voice cutting through the whistling Fhirdiad wind as they all stare down towards the warehouse holding the Hero’s Relic. It takes everything in him not to flinch at the name.

  
Felix remembers Miklan—he remembers bruises shaped like fingerprints that crawled up Sylvain’s arms, the way that his best friend would take every opportunity to stay either with him or Dimitri. The day that Miklan had finally, _finally_ been disowned by the Gautiers had been an utter relief. It had been the first and only time he’d ever seen Sylvain cry. 

  
“He carries a Minor Crest of Gautier, so be wary of the Lance. Byleth, Felix, and I will take care of Miklan. The rest of you will pick off the mercenaries he’s hired. No one can know that the Relics still exist,” Everyone hears the underlying message in Claude’s command. It makes Felix feel uneasy, and he senses some of the others shift uncomfortably behind him. 

  
But the knowledge that would escape otherwise is too important. What has to be done will be done. It dawns on him that Annette and Ingrid now know that the Relics exist—two people outside of the League who’d interacted directly with it and still lives to tell the tale. At least, for now. 

  
If the League forces his hand, he’ll tear apart Garreg Mach himself. That, he’s sure of.

  
“ _I’ve killed CCTV everywhere within a five-block radius, but that warehouse is off the grid. Once you’re in, I’m blind._ ” Annette chimes in through the static of the comm in his ear, hidden under the hood and that damn mask that Claude forced him to wear. Felix had always hated the mask. 

  
He breathes in once through the cloth and they’re off. Claude draws and shoots his arrow in the same breath, the rappelling rope pulling taut as the arrow lands true, hundreds of yards away. Claude is the only person that Felix is willing to admit is a better archer than him.

  
The feeling of hanging in the air, dozens of feet above the ground, has never sat well with him. When his feet meet the roof of the warehouse without a sound, he’s instantly relieved. Leonie, who’s last off, cuts the rope as Byleth beckons him and Claude forward. They all filter one by one through the roof door and onto the industrial balcony, utterly silent as voices become clear.

  
“—ou fool. Do you realize what you’ve done? I assure you, the League is on its way, and I am not going to clean up your mess when they arrive.”

  
Felix recognizes that voice. He _knows_ that voice. He’s heard it at galas and dinner parties, stiff dinners at the manor and birthday parties from his younger years. His dread is only confirmed when he sees that shock of red hair. It’s Sylvain’s fucking father, there in the flesh, berating Miklan as if he’s a child and not a fully grown man clutching a glowing Relic.

  
The thought barely settles before Byleth launches themself over the railing onto a storage cube, the clanging sound echoing violently through the concrete space. Sothis’s Sword glows violently in their hands, poised to extend itself and rip through whatever may be in its path, “Miklan Gautier, by order of the Sothis League, surrender the Hero’s Relic.” 

A growl, “You’ll have to pry it from me.”

  
Hell breaks loose and Felix forgets all about Atticus Gautier.

  
His focus narrows to the extension of his sword, faithful in the glowing arrows launched over his head by Claude at his back. He raises the shield only once or twice and feels sick every time a weapon comes in contact with it, nearly retching with each scrape of metal against ancient bone. It’s not a sound he’ll ever grow used to.   
Gunfire glances harmlessly off the Fraldarius Shield as he tears through those in his warpath, refusing to look at their faces or beyond the weapons pointed at him. Felix takes pride in the skill, prowess, and mastery that he’s carefully cultivated over these past years, shaped by discipline and precision. He takes no pride in the lives he takes for the League.

  
And then he’s standing in front of Miklan, Crest dramatically aglow over his shoulder as he rips through the last mercenary in his way. It’s never escaped him that it’s shaped like a shield, reminiscent of the Relic on his forearm. 

  
Miklan tilts his head, drumming his fingers along the modulating Gautier Lance, “Felix Fraldarius… Of course. I’ll be sure to send Sylvain your—”

  
He doesn’t get a chance to finish—the Sothis Sword rips through him from behind, straight through his sternum and inches from Felix’s. The Gautier Lance clatters to the floor, the sound ricocheting against the concrete floor. He doesn’t even flinch. 

  
The sword retracts and Miklan falls, revealing the stoic face of the Ashen Demon behind him, “Grab the Lance. Let’s go.” 

  
Felix sheathes the bloodied sword at his side and reaches for the dulled Lance, reverted back to its dull ivory. The Crest Stone stares at him, pulsating with the double scythed symbol engraved into it. It matches those ridiculous cufflinks that Sylvain hates; the ones his father had given him years ago. He wonders exactly how much Atticus Gautier knows about that symbol. 

  
But for now, all he does is grip the weapon and move forward. 

**Author's Note:**

> catch me on tumblr @feyreofthewildfire  
> also catch me lurking on both the felannie and sylvix servers cause i live in multi-shipping hell


End file.
